Fiction from The Literary Review

Tommy

Rem Reynolds

Diane stood in the cramped room of a midtown New York hotel, in the arms of a mental outpatient, her husband’s bland encouragements in her ear. The man’s name was Tommy. Her face pressed against his chest so that she could only see out of her left eye. What she saw was her husband Lance, smiling and flashing her the thumbs-up. She wondered what, exactly, he thought to be so winning, then she focused on the powerful arms and the rough cloth against her cheek, and panic rose in her stomach like a startled bird.
           Then Tommy let go, and Lance clapped his hands together.
           “Great Tommy!” he said. “Diane, can you tell Tommy thanks for the hug?”
           She didn’t hear the question. The force of Tommy’s embrace hadn’t left her yet. She imagined the vapors of his identity hanging in her clothes like cigarette smoke.
           Lance was saying her name. “Hello?” He waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Hello?”
           “Don’t do that,” said Diane.
           “If you were any cuter you’d beat Christmas,” said Tommy.
           He beamed at her from above. She hadn’t expected him to be so tall, but she guessed he was close to seven feet. His red curly hair was cut short in the front and on the sides, but the back ballooned into a bushy mullet. He wore a faded camo hunting jacket and blue jeans, and his feet were bare. “Please tell Tommy that you appreciate the hug.” Lance gave her an expectant look. Apparently he now counted the handling of mentally ill people as one of his many fields of expertise, and in his diagnosis Tommy’s stability depended on Diane’s appreciation of his embrace.
           “Thanks for the hug,” she said.
           “Now everyone knows each other. Isn’t that great!”
           “Sure, sure. Cool it, man,” said Tommy, rubbing his stomach and nodding. He leaned down toward Diane and whispered, “You and me could have a good time.”
           Diane laughed, too loudly it seemed to her, and then looked down, embarrassed, at Tommy’s feet. Pale and huge, strangely alien. So large they almost demanded sentience, to be set free from the rest of the body as well as the diseased mind. She imagined his autonomous feet fleeing across a desert floor, glowing under the moon, reflecting its light back to the sky. She didn’t know why that image came to her. That was the way things were going lately.
           The sound of rushing water flooded the room as Marty Singer stepped out of the bathroom with a hand on his zipper, yanking it upward. The coppery taste of resentment swirled in Diane’s mouth. Marty had set everything in motion. His friend worked as an orderly at a high-end clinic that treated Atlanta’s chemically imbalanced wealthy. One day, while administering meds to some of the patients, he heard a man singing. The music led the orderly to a room where he found the singer perched on the edge of his bed, head tilted back and belting away. That was Tommy, who’d been checked in that very day after failing to drown himself in the deep end of his parents’ swimming pool. A few days later the orderly lent Tommy a guitar and recorded him for several hours as he strummed and sang, moving seamlessly from song to song with no interruptions, all of them about a girl named Claire. The orderly played the tape for some people, including Marty, who owned a local record store. Marty immediately called his friend Lance in New York. Lance had graduated from NYU four years ago and was running a fledgling record label with an Afrobeat funk band as its centerpiece. Tommy was released from the clinic after two weeks, and within days of hearing the tape Lance signed him to a recording contract, with Marty serving as his agent. They took the original tapes and gave them to a semifamous indie producer, who remixed them and added glitches, guitars, ambient sounds, beats. When the record came out, college DJs across the country touted Tommy as a genius. Naïf art, found art, whatever. Kids liked it. Suddenly there was money, and the possibility of more of it, so Marty and Tommy flew up to the city for Tommy’s New York premiere. The tickets had sold out within hours.
           “We have to go,” said Marty. He slapped the little potbelly pushing against the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
           “Righto,” said Lance. “You ready, Tommy?”
           Diane found her husband’s tone, the same he’d use with a dog or a small child, to be uncomfortably familiar.
           Tommy laid down on the bed. “I’m going to need something to drink first,” he said.
           Marty and Lance cautiously eyed each other.
           “What do you want?” Marty asked.
           “Screwdriver.”
           “I don’t know, Tommy. We have a lot of stuff to do to get you ready for tonight.”
           “When has one screwdriver ever stopped anyone from getting ready?” asked Tommy.
           “We don’t have time,” said Marty. “Tonight’s a big deal. After the show.”
           Tommy sat up. “Look, if you don’t get me a screwdriver I’m going to tear this place apart.” He stood and swept his arm to indicate what he was willing to destroy for a cocktail.
           Diane regarded Lance’s thin arms. She looked at Marty’s soft round belly. Her mind sped through unhappy equations of mass, force, and speed. “Quit being such a jackass,” said Marty.
           Tommy moved quickly, lifting the yelping Marty above his head. Diane stepped back toward the door as Lance fluttered his hands up and down, pantomiming calm. Tommy grinned at Diane as he held Marty aloft, flailing his arms and legs like a weak swimmer. She felt an invitation in Tommy’s look, a silent, amused offering of complicity. Then he abruptly dropped his agent on the bed. They all watched the pudgy body bounce a few times on the hotel mattress.
           “I’m just fucking with you people,” said Tommy.
           “Jesus,” said Marty, red-faced, one hand massaging the back of his neck. “I think you gave me whiplash.”
           They both started laughing. The two of them had developed a bond in the months they’d known each other. Diane looked at Lance, who was watching the men with a blank expression. She could practically hear the gears click into place as her husband, intent on fostering business and artistic camaraderie, mustered a smile and pushed out a few notes of false laughter.
          

           Lance had gotten a new haircut that day and hadn’t been able to stop looking at himself. The haircut displeased him. Now he was brushing aside the long bangs as he eyed his reflection in the rearview mirror, idling at a stoplight on the way downtown.
           “I got a haircut because I didn’t want to look like The Strokes. Now I look like one of the guys from Orgy. So you tell me. Is that an improvement?” Diane didn’t think so but let the question go unanswered. Marty tittered in the backseat. She wanted to turn around and watch him and Tom-my, make sure they weren’t ridiculing her and Lance with gestures, faces.
           She’d first met Lance in a Russian literature class. He was articulate and even, and his ideas often sounded like more cogent versions of her own. He had a quiet arrogance she admired. They married immediately upon graduating from college. After floundering for a year as a schoolteacher, Lance inherited some money, met the lead singer of Kuti Explo-sion, and started the label. Diane privately predicted the rapid dissolution of funds. Lance was an intellectual, not an entrepreneur. He had no experience. In two years, she told her friends, he’d be in graduate school on his way to a PhD and a position in a History department.
           But the logic of capitalism came naturally to Lance, and its need for self-promotion didn’t disturb him like she’d thought it would. He pursued connections with people who had money or power. She recalled standing by him one night as he conversed with a mid-level A&R; man, not even a real mover. Lance beamed at him, told him that all of his ideas were fantastic, transgressive. He’s climbing, she thought then. Now people took him to lunch. They made him offers. She was starting to understand the totality of his vision. She’d overheard him speaking to the same A&R; man last week, and heard him use all of his standard exclamations and flatterings, but when he hung up Lance laughed and said to the phone, “Could you possibly fit more of my dick in your mouth?”
           The light turned green and Lance gunned the car forward. Tommy and Marty whispered to each other in the backseat.
           “The consensus back here, man, is that your haircut looks like a stuffed beaver,” said Tommy.
           Diane couldn’t help herself. Despite Lance’s sensitivity, she laughed out loud.
           “It cost me a hundred and eighty dollars,” replied Lance.
           He moved the car into the far left lane and blew past a couple of taxis. Then he switched quickly into the middle lane, cutting off a cherry BMW convertible. Diane gripped the handle above the door and held her breath. Lance drove aggressively when he was nervous. “For a hundred and eighty dollars I’d at least want to look like a man,” said Tommy.
          

           Diane loved the smell of clubs in the afternoon, the cigarette smoke mixed with the tangy aroma of spilled booze. It was such a sweet, fragile scent, one that would be overwhelmed once the bodies started to gather for the evening.
           A couple of nineteen year olds lugged an amplifier across the stage with their skinny tattooed arms. Exile on Main Street played on the stereo. Lemony afternoon light filtered in through the windows. She went to the bar, where her friend Mick was washing glasses, and ordered a Corona.
           “How’d the show go last night?” she asked Mick.
           He shrugged.
           “If you and Lance had shown up you would’ve doubled the crowd,” he said.
           She felt guilty. She’d dated Mick for a short time before meeting Lance. His band was bad but self-aware and funny. She’d thought about going to the show, but lately she found it unpleasant to leave her apartment. She’d quit answering the phone, and deleted all emails with “rokk” in the subject line. “Don’t worry about it,” said Mick, waving away whatever pity he’d inspired. “We had a good time. A drunk punk rocker took to me about halfway through the set. We’re in love now.”
           “Romantic.”
           “Absolutely,” he said. “She’s got an Iron Cross tattooed on her back. Imagine me with a delicate flower like that.” Mick shook his head. “So tell me, where’s your boy?”
           “Lance is back with Tommy getting things ready.”
           “I was talking about Tommy. I want to see the guy. Dude’s pictures look like a freak.”
           Diane thought of Tommy’s ridiculous red hair, his unreal size, his tattered hunting jacket. A freak. Still, he was different than she’d imagined him to be. There was a sense of restrained hilarity about him, as if he was orchestrating a grand, perhaps malevolent joke and was waiting to unveil the punch line. She thought of what he’d told her: we could have a good time. Lance hadn’t blinked at that.
           “I’m sure people will get their money’s worth,” she said.
           Lance emerged from the backrooms of the club and joined them at the bar. He slapped hands with Mick.
           “I heard you guys rocked the party last night,” Lance said.
           “Nah,” said Mick.
           “That’s what I heard,” said Lance. He gestured toward Diane’s beer. “You’re starting early.”
           “Want a drink?” asked Mick.
           “No,” said Lance. “Working.” He rapped on the bar with his knuckles. “Send me a CD. I’ll see what I can do with it.”
           “Lance is very helpful,” Diane said. “He’s a fisher of men.”
           Her husband frowned at her.
           “Are you okay?”
           “Fine,” she said.
           Lance watched her for a moment, his lower lip stuck out in a signal of annoyance. Then he nodded once at her before heading backstage again. “You guys must be on edge,” said Mick.
           “Why?”
           “Big night tonight. Lots of industry. Plus the gawkers. The boss is nervous. Heard there was some kind of problem at a show in Atlanta.” Nobody had mentioned anything to Diane about Atlanta.
           “He got in a fight with someone. Wasn’t on his medication. There might be a lawsuit.”
           “Who’s suing who?”
           “Don’t know. I’ve only heard rumors.” Mick popped the top off a Budweiser and leaned against the back of the bar. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. No one has their shit together like Lance. He’s too careful to let anything get fucked up.”
           Diane considered the depth of explication necessary to refute that comment. She thought of the hours, the days, the multimedia presentations that would be required. The complexity of it all made her want to leave. She glanced at the grimy exit door and tried to imagine Lance’s reaction. He’d take it personally, no matter what excuses she offered. She sat down on one of the duct-taped bar stools and decided to let Mick cheer her up.

           At eight, people began filing into the club. She went backstage to avoid the crowd competing for Mick’s attention at the bar.
           Marty, Lance, and Tommy sat at a table with a man in leather pants. Lance introduced him as Dez Rubin. Lance’s eager demeanor, his quick smile when she walked in the room, meant that Dez was in a position to dispense favors.
           Dez looked her up and down, making a cocky display of checking her out. She glanced over at Lance, who didn’t return her look. She excused herself. A few members of Kuti Explosion were sprawled on a sofa. The singer, a muscular black from Brooklyn, passed her a joint as she sat down. “What’s going on, Leo?” she asked after exhaling and passing it back.
           “Things are moving,” he said. “We’re booked in Europe. My first time over there. And Mary’s pregnant.”
           Mary was Leo’s twenty year-old wife. Diane congratulated him.
           “Best day of my life,” he said. “Found out yesterday. She’s coming with us to Paris and Rome. She’s Catholic. We’re going to the Sistine Chapel. She’ll have the baby inside her. It’s going to be amazing.”
           Tommy sidled over to them and exchanged greetings with Leo.
           “Let me have some,” whispered Tommy, nodding at the joint.
           “It’ll make you paranoid. Wait until after the show.”
           Tommy looked at Diane. “Don’t ever go and drown yourself,” he said. “They handle you like a china doll.”
           The way he addressed her directly gave her a nervous thrill, like he’d chosen her as some sort of ally. She wondered if it was just flirtation, or in fact an acknowledgement of something she hadn’t yet identified, a small stamp of common ground.
           Marty rose from the table and interrupted them.
           “Tommy, the opening band’s getting ready to go on. They’re not bad, you should check them out.”
           “What do they sound like?” asked Tommy.
           “Like a mix of the Beach Boys and Radiohead,” said Marty. “They’re like an American Radiohead.”
           Tommy looked confused. “An American what?”
           “Here, take your medication too.” Marty gave him a pill and assured him once again of the band’s quality.

           Diane felt herself sinking into the sofa. Leo’s dope had been strong, and she’d had too many drinks too early. She needed to get herself together. Everyone went to check out the opening band except Lance and Dez. She could hear Lance talking.
           “The thing with him is he’s real. And that’s what people want now. You’ve got bands that just make whatever sound people want to hear. The beautiful thing about Tommy is he can’t do that. He can’t make any kind of music except his kind. The kind he hears in his head. It’s the ultimate in real. People feel that when they hear him.”
           She’d heard this speech before. He’d unconsciously practiced it on her during a recent argument. He considered authenticity to be a critical attribute of his artists, and their backstories to be their distinguishing features in the marketplace.
           “It’s risky,” said Dez.
           “This is rock and roll,” said Lance. “It’s nothing but risk on every level.”
           Dez laughed. “Don’t try to appeal to the little rebel in me. Compared to you I’m an old man. This is my job. I can be very risk-averse.”
           Dez used a credit card to chop up lines of coke on the table. He offered one to Lance, who politely refused. So typical of him, Diane thought, to maintain all control. She still admired his discipline, but as one sometimes respects qualities that one doesn’t have, with a mixture of envy and derision. Her own lack of discipline had become very apparent lately. She’d been writing a newsletter for a travel company until the sagging airline industry led to the elimination of her department. She was content, at first, to enjoy the free time. She went to museums, read books, volunteered from time to time. Gradually those activities grew tiresome. Her friends said to think of the time as an opportunity to do what she’d always wanted. They seemed to think that suddenly she’d reveal some master talent for painting, or that she’d deliver the manuscript of a Great Novel. However, serious consideration of their counsel led her to this conclusion: there was nothing she’d always wanted to do. So she slept until the afternoon and rarely left the apartment. She’d begun to feel as if her insides were heavy and poisoned. Now what she truly wanted was a job, a distraction from herself, an excuse to leave. As for Lance, who woke at six every morning to work out and go to the office, his attitude during this period had begun at a minor level of concern and slid into edgy, biting impatience.
           Lance got up and went into the bathroom. Dez did his lines. He turned and looked at Diane.
           “You want some?”
           She shook her head.
           He came and sat next to her on the sofa.
           “So can you see Tommy on MTV?” he said. “Or is that just Lance?”
           She didn’t answer.
           “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
           “I’d like a glass of water.”
           “Alright.” Dez didn’t move. “Are you Lance’s girlfriend?”
           “I’m his wife,” she said, raising a limp hand to display the ring.
           “He’s a real go-getter, isn’t he?”
           She shrugged. She wanted Dez to go away.
           “He has a really cute way of talking business,” said Dez.
           Noise suddenly blared from outside—the opening band had started. The music made the room feel smaller. She turned her head and regarded Dez. He was very close to her. His mouth was moving, but the chugging guitars swept away whatever he was saying. His lips, framed by a manicured goatee, made her think of writhing slugs. A damp, prickly heat caused sweat to break on her forehead. She stood up quickly and lurched toward the bathroom. She collapsed over the toilet.
           The heat subsided, her stomach settled. She drank water from the sink, trying to get the taste out of her mouth. After a while she felt better. She pushed through the swinging bathroom door. She hoped the room would be full, that Tommy and the others would be back, but instead she found only Dez and Lance, sitting at the table.
          “Nine o’clock and already puking her guts out,” said Dez as he leaned over to receive the light Lance extended to him. He leaned back in his chair and blew a swirling cone of smoke into the air above her husband’s head. “I love her Bon Scott act,” he said.
           Lance smiled and shook his head in agreement.
           The opening band finished. When Dez walked outside to make a phone call, Diane asked Lance who he was. He told her Dez worked as a vice president at a major. What was he doing here? They were exploring scenarios.
           “What kind of scenarios?” she asked.
           He leaned back in his chair and placed his arms behind his head.
           “They might want to purchase the label. Or they might want to distribute a few of the artists. Kuti definitely. Tommy maybe. I’m not sure yet. It’s all very preliminary.”           “What would you do if they bought the label?”
           “I’d make sure I was part of the deal. I have expertise they don’t have access to now. They’re huge. I specialize. I understand this market and how to push to it. It’s a matter of making them recognize me as an asset.”
           “How are you going to convince them of that?” asked Diane. She realized the question sounded sarcastic, though that hadn’t been her intention.
           “Well, Diane, I say to them, look, I can do this, and I’ve done this, and the results were A, B, and C, which were all very good for my company, both artistically and financially. And I say to them, look, this is not luck, or winning the lottery, but a result of experience and know-how and being smart. I tell them that I could do the same for them. I could give them artistic credibility they don’t have. More importantly, I could push their profit margins up in the same way I’ve done with our label. Therefore, ergo, you see, I’m a potential asset.”
           “I wasn’t trying to be a bitch,” she said.
           He stared at her for a moment. “I know.”
           “Lance.”
           “Yes?”
           “I’m tired.”
           “You don’t have to stay.” He reached over and squeezed her arm. “If you’re sick go home and get some rest.”
           “No, I mean, I think I’m depressed.”
           “Oh, well.” She could tell he didn’t like to hear that. “Why?”
           “I don’t know,” she said.
           They fell silent, and she listened to the steady clatter and rumble of noise from the crowd outside.
           “Diane,” Lance said, and his voice had a tone of importance, as if he was going to say something he’d wanted to say for a long time. She watched him prepare, and braced herself.
           “Diane,” he said again, but this time the urgency was gone, replaced by exhaustion. With two fingers, he massaged his temples. She could hear feedback squalling from the stage area. The soundmen were getting Tom-my set up. A hard bitter thought struck her: she was hoping it would all be a failure.
           “I don’t think this is right,” she said.
           “What?”
           “This. Tommy.”
           “I know. You’ve told me.”
           “Still. It bothers me.”
           “You’d rather have him doped up and watching TV.”
           The absurdity of the remark cut through the haze she’d felt since smoking Leo’s joint.
           “You know that’s not the point. Don’t think of pinning that Nurse Ratchett shit on me.”
           “I wouldn’t dare. You’re unassailable.”
           “What does that mean?”
           “Your position of complete inactivity affords you such a strong vantage point for moral evaluation.”
           “You know this is wrong. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
           “He’s not hurting anyone. He’s not hurting himself. We’re taking care of him. He’s doing something worthwhile. Making something beautiful, something that I think is true and valuable. You can’t make me second guess that.”
           She could hear drums rattling now, noodlings on bass. The instruments were almost set up then. Tommy would be starting soon.
           “I’ll tell you this though,” he said. “I’m getting very tired of being judged by you.” He stood and walked out to hear his act play.
           Tommy took the stage to whistles and applause. Members of the Kuti Explosion assembled behind him. Diane stood in the crowd with Lance, who shifted nervously from foot to foot.
           The drummer began hitting his snare. After a few measures the guitarist joined in, adding a single chord to fill up the pause between the beats. “He’s sweating like a pig,” said Lance.
           Tommy looked nervous. Drops of sweat rolled off his enormous ears and nose, pattered the stage around him.
           “He looks bad,” she agreed.
           “He’s blinking too much and he’s not singing,” said Lance. “Why isn’t he singing?”
           The band played on behind Tommy. There was no indication on their faces that the song had been anything less than perfect so far. In front of them, Tommy fell to his knees. His hands went up to his face, and he leaned over, touching his forehead to the stage. Briefly Diane thought of a Muslim computer programmer from her old company, how he’d stand up from his desk, lay down his prayer mat and lean over, splaying his hands toward Mecca. His devotion had made her uncomfortable. It left her with the impression that her own life was governed by something lax and exhausted.
           “Why the fuck isn’t he singing?” said Lance.
           Tommy straightened up and looked out at the audience. He’d clawed his face while leaning over, and a thin stream of blood ran from a gash under his right eye. His mouth was open and moving, like a wounded fish. Diane wondered if he was making any noise. A childish panic struck her, that she had ruined the night, somehow, by wishing for its demise.
           “Get the fuck up off the fucking floor and sing you fucking piece of shit,” said Lance.
           She thought of Alaska, or Wyoming, or some other quiet green place where she could walk on dusty paths while dappled light fell through the trees. She could move there. She could do that. There were ten thousand things she could do.
           Tommy stood up and jerked the microphone to his mouth. In a clear, strong tenor he sang the first line of the song, right in time with the downbeat. What a natural, thought Diane.

           Backstage felt more exclusive after the show. People were being turned away. Diane stepped carefully around the room, staying at the edges of Lance’s circles of conversation.
           The set had been flawless. Tommy joked with the crowd, charming them with his Georgia accent and a bizarre array of knock-knock jokes. After the second encore, as the tousle-headed boys and girls headed for the door, Diane heard a music geek explaining to his girlfriend how Tommy’s voice emulated certain tones from Tuvan throatsingers. “Fucking brilliant!” the kid said, running his hand through his floppy hair, and the girl had looked up at him in a way that Diane recognized: a mixture of love, boredom, and bafflement.
           Lance stood with Tommy in a group of admirers, holding a drink in one hand and placing the other on Tommy’s massive shoulder. Tommy was apparently off his leash now. A pink Band-Aid underlined his right eye. He took a lengthy swig from an oversized bottle of dark German beer, and shrugged Lance’s hand off.
           “Unreal,” said Lance, not seeming to notice as Tommy sidestepped away from the conversation. “It was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was like being at the first Ramones show. That’s how people are going to talk about this. Did you see it out there? People were fucking nailed to the floor.” Diane found Leo’s wife Mary in the corner, sitting happily with another girl. She congratulated her on the pregnancy.
           “These are the best days of my life,” said Mary. “Every day feels like a little miracle to me. The minutes are filled with love, like pieces of bread dipped in butter. Do you know what I mean?”
           Diane had no idea. She nodded and kissed Mary’s cheek.
           She saw Tommy fetching a beer from the cooler and went to join him. She accepted the cigarette he plucked from the breast pocket of his hunting jacket. He hadn’t removed it despite the body heat throb of the club. She placed the cigarette in her mouth and leaned over his enormous hands as he extended a light.
           “Did I look nervous?” he asked her.
           She thought for a moment. “Not really. You looked like a performer.”
           He laughed. “I was shaking like a baby rabbit. I’ve never had so many people looking at me, you know. Girls and stuff. You get up there and they’re bearing down on you with their soft Bambi eyes. It killed me. I didn’t want to leave. It was like an ocean of generosity.”
           “Can I ask you a question?” she said.
           “Sure.” Tommy held a bottle to his mouth and popped the top off.
           “What do you have?” she asked. “I mean, what do the doctors tell you?”
           “They say technically there’s nothing wrong with me.” He smiled down at her with his dark teeth.
           “Will you have to go back to the hospital?” she said.
           Tommy took a swig of his beer and stared ahead thoughtfully.
           “Well, that’s not really for me to say. You know, a place is a place is a pain in the ass. I know a guy who went to California, and he wrote me a letter. He said there were two seasons out there: warm and wet, and warm and dry. Two seasons! Two seasons, man, I’m like fuck that! Where I need to go is a place where they have a hundred seasons, or a new season for every day of the year. You know there’s a place like that somewhere. It’s just hard to imagine!”
           Tommy was becoming more animated. She thought the world he described sounded appealing.
           “Let me know if you find it,” she said. “I’ll buy a ticket and join you there.”
           “Deal,” said Tommy as he gazed over her head, surveying the celebration.
           The party increased in intensity as it shrank in population. Mary left with Leo. Marty Singer passed out on the sofa. Tommy lifted Diane up on his shoulders and carried her around. She had to bend over to keep her head from hitting the ceiling. From above she watched his huge pale feet stride across the floor.
           Dez and Lance talked at the table. Diane watched Lance move his hands, tracing in the air his visions of the future, and what his terms would be. Tommy carried her out of the room. They went down a hallway.
           “Hey Tommy, where are we going?” asked Diane.
           “I wonder what this is,” said Tommy, opening an unmarked door.
           He stooped so she wouldn’t hit her head as they entered the room. He felt the wall and found a light switch. It was an office. Framed rock posters surrounded them. There was a black leather sofa, and a small desk with a James Brown bobblehead doll on it.
           “Hmm,” said Tommy, picking up James Brown. “I wish I was funkier.”
           “We should get out of here. This is the owner’s office.”
           “Right right right,” said Tommy. He walked to the door and shut it. Then he carried her over to the sofa. He reached up and lifted her from his shoulders. He put her down on her back, so that her head rested on one of the sofa’s arms. She’d never been handled so gently. She thought of King Kong plucking Fay Wray from the Empire State Building with a jeweler’s delicacy.
           “Tommy,” she said. “We should go back to the party.”
           Tommy sat down on the edge of the sofa.
           “If you could have one wish come true, what would you wish for?” asked Tommy. He was lowering his face toward hers. She felt like she was going to scream, but when she opened her mouth she simply answered his question.
           “Happiness.” She’d known it without thinking.
           Tommy placed a hand on her shoulder.
           “That’s the stupidest wish I’ve ever heard.”
           He was about to kiss her now, she thought. She breathed in deep and prepared to let it loose.
           But his head fell to the side of hers. He dangled his long legs off the other end of the sofa. He put an arm around her and pulled her gently to him. Diane could still feel her heart beating when she finally realized he was asleep. She thought of getting up, finding Lance, but had little enthusiasm for the idea. After all, it felt strange and comfortable where she was, immersed in the shapes and smells of a new body. She clutched him tightly. Then, a few minutes later, she filled the room with her own measured breathing.

           The club owner eventually found them as he was locking up for the night. Tommy unwound himself from Diane’s arms and rubbed his eyes. Marty and Lance stared at them from the doorway. Diane knew what they were thinking and had no desire to fix it.
           They didn’t speak on the ride home alone together. She waited for Lance to casually drop the first comment, the insinuation that would signal the beginning of a new era, the Age of Open Aggression. The anticipation of this filled her with a nervous excitement. But the opening didn’t come. Instead, while waiting at a stoplight, Lance reached over and quickly squeezed her hand—an absent, unthinking gesture. She watched the closed dark storefronts slide by and contemplated her disappointment.
           At home she couldn’t sleep. She stared at Lance’s silhouette for awhile. Then she got out of bed. She went into the living room, fixed herself a bourbon and water, and cut on the TV. When she lifted the drink to her mouth she smelled Tommy on her hands. She flipped through the array of stations several times before settling on an old black and white movie. She thought maybe the heroine was Claudette Colbert, but she didn’t know enough about old Hollywood to say for sure. Either way, the actress was funnier and more charming than anyone Diane had ever met. Lance always made her watch old movies. He regarded them as artifacts from an age of superior integrity.
           Later, a hand on her shoulder shook her awake.
           “Look at this,” said Lance with mock admiration. He stood over her in his bathrobe. Behind him in the dim room the window glowed like an orange coal in ash, its flickering outline drawn by the morning light that leaked from the curtain’s edges and shimmered hot and white on the floor. It was beautiful. She felt her heart lunge toward it even as she tried to place herself, to recall the events that had led her there.
          Lance swept his hand to indicate the killed bottle of bourbon, the unfinished glass, her own body slumped in the chair.
           “How very rock and roll,” he said.